


Like Diamonds and Rubies

by imonlyobsessed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imonlyobsessed/pseuds/imonlyobsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood. He was bleeding on the salt. He had to redraw the line, the line can’t be broken. Sweeping back the other direction, another inch of white covered the first. Couldn’t mess it up again, had to keep them safe. He leaned back and away from the door, trying not to drip. His balance shifted out from under him and he toppled. His legs were still bent uncomfortably, forcing him to fall backwards and then slide sideways. Salt flew from the canister, sleeting off his skin and sticking in his blood. White specks bit into his open wounds as the motel room started to go fuzzy and grey. Safe first. They had to be safe. “Dean?!” The call came from inside the room, inside the salt-lines. Safe behind a wall of diamonds and rubies. And then the world went away for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Diamonds and Rubies

**Author's Note:**

> My laptop keeps giving me BSOD, so I'm uploading all my old fics for safe keeping. Written way back when, meant as gen but really is kind of more like pre-slash.

His vision blurred as he dug the salt out of their bag. The world swam around him, colors and shapes streaming together in short, circular jumps. Fuck. He didn’t have time for this. They were hurt. He needed to take care of them but he had to make them safe first. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for the world to right itself. He could hear his brother gasping as he fell on the other bed. He knew his brother was bleeding, they both were. They needed to get fixed up, stop the hurting. He opened his eyes cautiously. Only one of everything. Great. Limping as quickly as he could, he crossed the room to the window, pouring a thick line of salt on the windowsill. Grains slid over the edge and down the wall, hissing like dry rain against the plaster. Once a line was drawn across the sill he turned to the door, not caring that salt still poured from the canister. The world turned again as he dropped to his knees. Had to make them safe. Another thick line of white crystals along the doorway separating them from the darkness on the other side. Safe. He noticed spots trailing along the line. Rubies dancing with the diamonds, so bright and red.

Wait, that wasn’t right.

He shoved the wild thought away and looked again. Blood. He was bleeding on the salt. He had to redraw the line. The line can’t be broken. Sweeping back the other direction, another inch of white covered the first. Couldn’t mess it up again, had to keep them safe. He leaned back and away from the door, trying not to drip. His balance shifted out from under him and he toppled. His legs were still bent uncomfortably, forcing him to fall backwards and then slide sideways. Salt flew from the canister, sleeting off his skin and sticking in his blood. White specks bit into his open wounds as the motel room started to go fuzzy and grey. Safe first. They had to be safe.

“Dean?”

The call came from inside the room, inside the salt-lines. Safe behind a wall of diamonds and rubies. And then the world went away for a while.

 

There were moments when reality would force its way in, flashes and snapshots of time:

 

Something biting and pulling at his wounds, tearing his skin, hurting him more. But before he could make it stop, before he could do more than twitch, the world slipped back out.

 

Something dry was shoved into his mouth; sat heavy on his tongue, hard and thick and bitter. He couldn’t seem to spit it out or swallow it. His mouth was too dry. Something cool and hard was held gently to his lips. “Goddamnit, Dean, drink!” He did what Sam told him. Sam held the glass for him, tipping slightly until all the water was gone. The glass disappeared and Dean was laid back down. “Safe, Sammy?” The words were slurred and oily.

“Yeah, man. We’re all set.” The words stayed with him even when nothing else did.

 

He was cold and wet and he thought he might be naked. Shivers didn’t begin to describe the shaking that wracked through his body incapacitating him as badly as any restraints. Honest to god whimpers were leaking out of his throat, small hurt sounds that he couldn’t seem to stop. He weakly pawed at where the blankets should be. “I’m sorry, man, but I have to keep your temperature down”

“ ‘M c’ld, S’m.” Sharp pain and copper filled his mouth. His chattering teeth had made him bite his tongue. The bed dipped behind him, causing him to lean as the mattress shifted and he was falling. A warm band went around his chest and pulled him back against a wall of heat, steadying him. “Dude, stop flailing. You’re alright, Dean, I’ve got you. It’s gonna be alright.” He relaxed into his brother’s embrace, letting Sam hold him to all that warmth. This time, he didn’t mind so much that reality stepped out for a while.

 

It was dark. None of the lamps were on and the only light was a sickly orange glow from the motel sign outside the window blinds. The shivers had stopped at last but he was still weak. His eyes felt hot and scratchy, like he’d been staring into a heater vent. The room stank with the acrid smells of sickness and sweat and the bitter tang of blood. He was still tucked under Sam’s chin, molded tightly against his brother’s body. Sam’s breath gusted across the shell of his ear and down his throat. There was still an arm across his waist, holding him flush against his brother’s chest. Sam’s knees were tucked behind his own, cupping their legs together. They were spooning. They were fucking spooning and he was the little spoon. God. Damnit! He really needed to be the first one awake in the morning so he could sneak out of this and never admit to it. Ever. Right now, though, he was still tired and everywhere they were touching was comfortably warm. Already, he was drifting back off and that was alright because, for tonight, Sam had his back.

 

Sunlight slanted across his face and didn’t seem inclined to move anytime soon. Groaning softly, he tried to worm down deeper into the pillow while he waited for reality to slip out the back door again. After a few minutes, he became aware of a couple important facts. First of all, reality was a bitch that wanted to stay right where she was and, by defying all laws of nature, so did the sun. Also, his mouth felt like Sam had shoved it full of cheap, used kitty litter while he was unconscious. Giving up on passing out, he let the rest filter in.

His lips were dry and cracked, like he desperately needed a drink. His skin felt tight on his upper thigh, especially near his left hip. He remembered that damn Cait Sith had managed to swipe his leg right before he drove an iron spike into its fucking heart. He doesn’t remember it really hurting, which, come to think of it, probably should have told him something. It was just a fairy cat; it shouldn’t have been a big deal. They hadn’t been expecting the bastard to have a master, so the Bogart attacking before they could drop the cat had fucked all their plans. He remembered Sam slamming into a tree and being frighteningly still. That damn Bogart had been playing with Sam while Dean was killing its precious pet. Sam had been bleeding too, hadn’t he? Yeah, there was blood running down from his temple. Where was Sam?

Dean’s eyes flew open. The other bed was empty but he could see that the bathroom door was closed and there was a light shining under it. Dean managed to slowly sit himself up against the headboard. The cheap vinyl was cool and stuck to his back. Why the hell was he naked? Gingerly, he lifted the scratchy and sweat-stained sheet pooled around his waist. He was still wearing boxers. Thank God. Cuddling was bad enough, but NAKED cuddling? He never would have lived it down. Raising the left leg of his shorts, he could also see the four jagged lines that started just below his hip and curved to mid-thigh. Looking closer, he noticed the small, tight, black stitches running along each gash. He knew Sam’s handiwork when he saw it. What else had Sam been up to?

There was a sheet pinned to the ceiling above the door with a Devil’s Trap covering the white threads. From the bed, Dean could see the salt lines along the floor. Panic flared through him and he had a confused thought about rubies and diamonds (and what the fuck did that even come from?) when he saw the blood stain on the carpet. “Sam?” His tongue was thick and dry, clumsy in his mouth. The intended shout had come out a tangled groan. He swallowed and tried again, hoping to be louder. “Sammy?!” The bathroom door flew open and Sam was at the bedside before Dean could process the movement.

“What is it? What’s wrong? What do you need?” Sam’s skin was pale and his eyes were haunted. The normally bright, hazel-greens were almost a black-brown, picking up the darkness of the purple bags under his eyes. Stubble covered his face, making his cheeks look gaunt. His long hair was sweat-streaked and gnarled. Even over the sickness and blood scents, Dean could practically smell the fear on his brother.

“ ‘M ok, dude. I just woke up and you weren’t here.” And, fuck. That’s not how he meant for that to sound. Relief spread through Sam’s frame; his shoulders sagged and his head drooped a little. The kid was practically swaying on his feet. “How’re you? I thought you got hurt too?”

“I did. My back looks like a Rorschach painting and I had to relocate my right knee-cap again.”

“I saw blood.”

Sam shook his head, “It was a nothing scratch on my scalp. You know how head wounds are.”

Something lightened in Dean’s chest making it much easier to breathe. “What happened to the Bogart? I don’t remember.”

“I called Bobby after I got us settled in. He sent someone out to stake, decapitate and torch the little bastard. How are you feeling?”

“Like you shoved dried shit in my mouth. The fuck have you been forcing down my throat?”

“Antibiotics mostly. Couple of painkillers. Whatever fluids I could get you to drink. Here, hold on.” Sam walked more slowly back in to the bathroom. If his mouth hadn’t been so dry Dean would have whistled. Sam hadn’t been lying about his back. Purples, yellows, blues, greens and even a little bit of pink covered it, swirled together like a kindergartener’s finger painting. It had to hurt to even breathe, let alone move. After a short burst from the faucet Sam shuffled back into the room holding a glass of water. To Dean, it looked like Heaven in a glass.

As Sam cleared the end of the other bed, Dean realized that he was in the wrong one. He’d started over there, hadn’t he? Fuck-stick, had Sam MOVED him? He wracked his brain, but that wasn’t one of the times that the world had asserted itself on him. But looking at the other bed he could see the rumpled sheets were stained dark in places and ways he really didn’t want to identify.

Sam pressed the glass into his hand and urged him to drink. Dean sipped at it, letting the water roll around his mouth, hydrating and waking half-dead taste buds. That, really, might not have been the best idea. “Oh, Christ. I should have asked for some Jack. At least then the alcohol might have killed my taste buds before they woke up.”

“Yeah, I’ll remember that for next time, Kesha.”

“What the hell is a kesha?”

“Nothing, never mind. Just drink.”

Dean looked at Sam over his glass as he sipped. “What happened, Sam?”

“You got us back here once we escaped that Bogart. I didn’t realize you were sliced up that bad or we’d have done something about it sooner.” Sam narrowed his blood-shot eyes at Dean. “You were laying the salt lines when you passed out from blood loss. I got you cleaned up and stitched your leg. While you were still sleeping off the blood loss you got an infection. Your temperature spiked, you got sweats, chills, the whole bit. Bobby sent a friend of his down. The doc gave you a shot to kick-start the antibiotics and gave me some drugs to make you take. I got you to swallow a couple of them but I just started crushing them up and feeding you the powder. That’s probably why your mouth tastes like ass. I couldn’t get you to swallow the pills.” Sam pulled a bottle from the bedside table and tapped two capsules into his palm. “Take those. You still have a few days left on your dosage and you WILL take every one of these damn pills.”

Dean popped them and finished his water. “How long have I been out?”

Sam visibly steeled himself. “Five days.”

“Five days?!” Jesus Christ, no wonder Sam looks like hell. How much sleep had he gotten? When was the last time he’d eaten? Every older brother instinct Dean had kicked into high gear. It didn’t matter that he was flat on his back and couldn’t get out of bed; he needed to take care of Sam. Especially since Sam had run himself ragged taking care of him. “Thanks. I mean, that had to suck for you.”

“Thank me by telling me the next time you get hurt. AS SOON as you get hurt. Save us both the trouble.”

“Deal. Now, come lay your Gigantor ass back down.” Dean slid down in the bed, lying flat on his back and patted the space next to him. The look on Sam’s face was priceless. “Dude, chill, you’re thinking too much. I’m not dying, the world is not ending. I can see from here how gross the other bed is. I can also see that you’ve got bags dark enough to look like you’ve been beat. Get your ass in this bed.” Sighing, Sam walked around to the empty side of the bed and crawled in. Dean watched him try to settle on to his side, facing away from Dean. Pulling his shoulders up as he curled in on himself and clutched the sheet around him. The sheet was tented between them, leaving Dean with a perfect view of the beating his brother had taken. Dean lightly set his fingertips on Sam’s back. Sam stiffened momentarily then relaxed. His skin was warm under Dean’s hand, almost hot from all the blood so close to the surface. Gently as he could, Dean ghosted his fingers down the bruises. Even those light touches made Sam hiss when Dean got to a particularly dark spot. “Have you taken anything?”

“Couple of muscle relaxers and some aspirin. It doesn’t bother me so much when _someone_ ’s not touching it.” Dean let his hand drop.

“It’ll be fine in a couple days.”

Dean nodded, more to himself than anything. It wasn’t as if Sam could see him anyway. “Yeah, well, it’ll heal quicker if you sleep a little. Go to sleep, Sam.”

“You’ll wake me if you need anything?”

“Of course.” Easiest lie he’d ever told.

Sam rolled painfully over to face Dean. “I’m serious, Dean. I’d rather you wake me up than you have a relapse and have to go through all that shit again. Wake me.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that because now he felt like an ass. Sam huffed a sigh and scooted closer. He grabbed Dean’s wrist and started pulling, “Come on, arm up.” Quirking an eyebrow, Dean raised his arm obediently. Sam settled against Dean’s side, pillowing his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Dean automatically curled his arm around his brother and rested his cheek in Sam’s hair. This was the way they had slept as kids, cramped on motel roll-beds and in the backseat of the Impala. How they’d spent almost every night until Sam was twelve and finally too old to share. There was also no way in hell Dean could move without waking Sam. Smart kid. At least it was better than being the little spoon. He smiled and smoothed Sam’s hair back from his face, “Real smooth, Bitch.”

“I learned it from you, Jerk.” The corners of Sam’s lips twitched, but he kept his eyes closed and started to drift off. “G’night, Dean.”

“Sleep well, Sammy.” His thigh ached, his head was fuzzy, and only being awake an hour had wiped him out. But there was salt on the windows and door, a sheet above his head and his brother was asleep on his chest. They were still whole and safe and sleeping for another dozen hours sounded about right. There was just one more problem. “Um… Sam? Dude, I gotta piss.”


End file.
